The Death of a King
by Ramzes
Summary: King Daeron the Good and the Great Bastards tore the Seven Kingdoms apart. Now the King is dead. How do his siblings react to this news? Aegor Bittersteel, Daenerys Martell, Shiera Seastar, and Lord Bloodraven - they all have something to say.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All belongs to GRRM but you already know it, right?_

**The Death of a King**

He laughed.

They said Aegor Rivers, Lord Bloodsteel, the founder of the Golden Company, never smiled. But at hearing the news, he laughed and toasted this precious bit of knowledge with delicious wine of Lys.

_The bastard is dead. Finally!_

Oh he'd be mourned and revered as a popular and beloved king, Aegor held no illusions about that. Daeron the Good! Wine turned sour in his mouth. _Daeron was never good toward the rightful king. He stole his throne and then had him slain. The seven see that he was never good to me, either. No, he preferred the marked one… the Blackwood spawn, the Others take him! _

So, now Naerys' bastard was dead and his good for nothing sons could do little to keep the realm in their hands. Not against the kings of the rightful line and Aegor Bittersteel. Still, who knew what wicked scheme Bloodraven might hatch? Whatever his faults – and Aegor could testify for all of them, - the sorcerer was far from stupid. Aegor thumped his fist on the table. So, now Bloodraven held the title of the King's Hand, the keys to the royal treasury, as well as Shiara, while Aegor had to crawl here, at Tyrosh, hatching desperate plans to gain justice. It was infuriating.

Still. He took his goblet and drank again. Daeron II the False King was dead. And that was a cause enough for celebration.

* * *

_One day, I'll dance on your grave._

Although she had long ago gotten used to the Dornish heats, Daenerys Martell shivered. She hadn't thought about her one time vow in years but now her memory recovered everything so clearly that her breath caught short. The despair, the helpless revolt, the wild grief at the loss of her love – it was all as if it had happened yesterday. Her pleas with Daeron to spare her the unwanted marriage – she had begged him to her knees but he, who was always so good to her, wouldn't budge this time. The nights she had spent weeping over the hopeless love she felt for Daemon and those she had spent grieving his atrocious death. The powerless hatred she had felt towards Brynden who had killed Daemon or had him killed – she had never especially liked Brynden or rather, she could have never been friends with him if she wanted to be friends with Daemon and Aegor, she knew that even as a child – and Daeron who had given orders for crushing the rebellion. Her last exchange with Daeron before she was packed off to Dorne when she had vowed that she'd hate him forever. She had never hated anyone as she hated him right then, the murderer of her hopes and dreams.

A hand touched hers. She did not look away from the children in the pools. She did not need to say, _I shall come to Sunspear and attend the formal announcement of my brother's death to the court,_ because he knew she would. She did not need to say, _I shall not shame you by submitting to woman's weakness and displays of feeling in public_ because he knew she wouldn't. She did not need to say, _One day, soon, I'd like for you to accompany me to my next visit to King's Landing because I want to say goodbye and I don't want to be alone there, for this is not my home anymore, _because he knew it.

"I love you," she said instead. She did not need to say it, for he knew that, too. She just wanted to.

Maron Nymeros Martel put his arms around her and she sighed against his chest, drying her tears in his garments.

"That's the end of an era," he said softly, thoughtfully. "For years, the Seven Kingdoms had peace and prosperity and people knew it even here, in Dorne. There are many who will be grieving with you, Daenerys. He was a good man."

She took a shuddering breath. "Yes," she said. "He was."

* * *

Lip paint, perfume, restorative potion, then the necklace...

She made it to the potion before she stood up and went to the bed, her hands shaking so hard that she could not take the goblet to her lips without splashing the dark liquid.

What would become of them now that the King was dead? Oh she had heard that Brynden was to be appointed the Hand of the new King and she rejoiced in that news but at the same time, it scared her. They had gathered quite a number of enemies, Brynden and she, and they would pounce at them at the smallest mistake. _And no one is a stranger to mistakes, even Brynden_, she thought. If he made one, it was unlikely that he'd escape with his life, as other Hands had. No, in the eyes of both nobles and smallfolk he was as guilty as the Others. _Because of the kinslaying_, they said. _Because of the spells_. As if he should have let Daemon who was unnaturally strong slay him with his sword, tearing the kingdom further apart in the process! As if knowledge was something to be despised, instead of used to purpose. But Shiera Seastar knew the truth. What people would never forgive him was, in fact, the birthmark on his face – her favourite part of him, - the strange colour of his hair, the fact that his only remaining eye was red. He was too disturbing just by being alive, let alone his other crimes. And Shiera feared for him. If he made a mistake, Aerys could not protect him. Daeron yes, easily. But not Aerys. _It's strange to think how much we all relied on Daeron_, she thought absent-mindedly just when someone opened the door without knocking and Brynden was suddenly in her chamber, in her bed, making love to her with passion that she did not remember since their first days together, so many years ago. _How many?_ she thought before she could think no longer. She had not agreed to marry him, she never would. But that did not matter. They were partners for life.

He collapsed on top of her and did not move aside. She cradled him and smoothed his hair, suddenly overwhelmed by the burning desire to keep him safe within her arms. He held back with the same force.

Still, when he woke up later in the night, the bed next to him was cold. Clad only in her fine nightgown, Shiara stood at the window, looking out into the night. He joined her and she startled when she felt his hand on hers. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Come back to bed. It's still cold at night."

She looked at him as if she had forgotten that she was nearly naked. "I was looking for a star," she said.

He laughed. "What?"

"I read about that in a book once. They said that when someone close to our heart dies, a new star appears in the sky."

For a long time, Brynden said nothing. Then he too looked at the sky. "His star would be very bright," he said thoughtfully. "He was one of the finest Westeros had to offer."

Had it been in broad daylight, they would not be having this conversation. At night, though, they were vulnerable. At night, they allowed themselves to feel.

She was Shiera Seastar, the seductress, the most lusted after woman in Westeros, the woman who played with men the way children played with toys.

There were just two men who mattered to her.

Daeron the Good who had accepted her without fearing her and without trying to change her, always patient and tolerant, never trying to push her aside for outshadowing his own offspring.

And Brynden Rivers, who had opened her heart and was the only lover who shared with her more than bed.

Now, caught by the power of the night, she grieved for the one and feared for the other.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I disclaim._

The Death of a King

Chapter 2

The fire in the enormous fireplace was dying and the tables were cluttered with platters and goblets – all of them full. Brynden Rivers felt a sudden chill. King Daeron was not the one to tolerate sloppiness in his servants. He should be very ill indeed for his bedchamber to look like this. Of course, it was possible that most of his servants had already perished.

And then, he felt the smell. It was the smell he had gotten accustomed to, for it had overtaken the whole King's Landing – the stench of the disease, with the nasty yet subtle undertone that said it was over.

King Daeron was lying in his bed, the covers rumpled behind his back. His breath was laboured, his face so white after his fever had broken that Brynden knew: it was over. A cold hand gripped his heart.

The King's eyes suddenly opened, wide and clear. He raised a hand. "Do not come closer," he said. "You… you shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous."

Brynden Rivers shook his head. "Don't worry, I have been in the streets for days trying to get the situation under control. If I am doomed to perish from the sickness, I already have it."

The look in Daeron's eyes did not change. "Still. I don't want to take you along where I am going, Brynden. It's… one way travel."

The closer he came to the magnificent bed, the stronger the stench became – a horrible reminder of all that was ahead of them. How would they live in a world where Daeron the Good was no longer?

"Drink this," he said and pressed a goblet of Shiera's potion in the King's hand, then supported his head so he could drink. Daeron did so without asking whatever the liquid was which surprised Lord Bloodraven. He tried to imagine how many people he knew would do this, drink from a goblet he offered. If he strained, maybe he could think of half a dozen. And of those, at least half of them would hesitate.

"Little raven, why are you looking away?" Daeron asked softly.

When Brynden heard the all but forgotten pet name Daeron had called him in his childhood, he suddenly felt that he could take it no longer. The memories of these nightmarish years when everybody had feared and avoided the strange-looking child came back in full force. Bloodraven, they had called him behind his back, fear in their voices since he could remember. Little raven, Daeron had called him with a laughter in his voice. Daeron the Good he had been long before he became King Daeron II.

"Because… because I don't want to listen you talk like that. You won't die."

"Oh I will… and I'd rather have it happen now, instead of later. That's the way of life. And I am quite old, you know."

Brynden looked at him and shook his head again. "You can never be too old, Your Grace, not when the Seven Kingdom need you."

"First of all, My Grace is begging of you to forget His Grace… And yes, you're right, of course." He sighed. "Who would have thought… Even in my worst nightmares I have not envisioned _this_."

Brynden was silent. What could he say? Illness or not, Daeron's mind was as sharp as ever. He had never been so blinded by his feelings as to fail to see his sons' weaknesses.

"And still, with time, Aerys' reign may become tolerable," the King went on. "With you at his side… All these years, I've been watching you. You never give up. You have the makings of a ruler, Brynden Rivers, and it shames me to think that once, I almost listened to my counselors and sent you away."

"You did whatever you thought was best," Brynden murmured and thought how close he had been to disaster and how relieved he had been when Daeron had not sent him away from his Council and his favour. "And you did let me stay."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

He held out a hand; Brynden took it and squeezed. They did not need to talk any more, they both knew it was a farewell. And the other thing, they also knew: the bond between them was more than just brotherly. Brynden could have been one of Daeron's own sons and he would mourn Daeron as he had never mourned his father.

"I'm afraid Maekar won't make it easy for you," Daeron said. 'Stay close to Aerys and Aelinor. They were always your friends."

Brynden nodded. "I will."

"Good." Daeron's colour had gone another notch down. "Now go. Have some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow… if I last this long."

He died the next day. And Brynden stood next to Shiera during the funeral, making plans about all the bodies, thinking just about anything other than the fact that the Good King Daeron was no longer. And when the night came, he went to Shiera's apartments and made love to her with passion unequaled in years. She reacted with the same ardour, as if she was trying to drown all her fears and sorrows, lose herself in his arms. Later, she spoke about a stupid superstition, a new star rising in the sky after the passing of a loved one. He knew it was stupid and yet he wanted to believe her. Only when her lips touched something wet on his cheek, he realized it was a tear.

He hadn't cried since he was a child, except maybe in pain after the Battle at Redgrass Field. But he didn't remember much about that. Now, he held her tight and bowed his head to give her better access. She kissed away another tear.

"It's funny," he said. "So many people would give everything to see me like this, clinging to you like a child. My reputation will be over."

"It's all right," she promised. "I won't tell anybody."

And then, suddenly, she was crying silently, clinging to him just as tightly as he held onto her. Shocked, he felt new wet warmth on his cheek under his one remaining eye. Tears. More tears than Shiera's lips could dry.


End file.
